Reflection
by Jamocha101
Summary: "It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane." -Phillip K. Dick. Bumblebee is forced to confront the potential death of the last person he would expect to see.


Everything was quiet.

Far, far too quiet. The only noise that seemed to penetrate the torturously still atmosphere was the falling of Bumblebee's frantic pedes, the loud clang of metal-to-metal as they forcefully hit the floor and were barely broken by the accompanying sound of harsh, ragged breaths. He could hardly keep his ventilation systems regular, the exhales coming out in short bursts from exerted energy. _Everything_ was irregular, everything messed up, just as unkempt and positively rugged as his breathing patterns.

He would have stopped-he would have loved to have a reason to stop. He would have loved to have had a reason to be running.

He ran. He ran, and he hadn't looked back once to see if his pounding pedes had put dents in the floor, and he briefly contemplated that with how hard he was running, he might actually had. If he tried, he couldn't remember the last time he had to run like this. If he tried, he couldn't remember why he couldn't seem to transform, why he hadn't seemed to think of it. If he tried, he couldn't muster any rationality, because everything, all his senses, had flown together in a cluster and betrayed him at once.

Couldn't concentrate. Couldn't think. Couldn't reason. Base was so _quiet. _Of all times, why was base _so_ _quiet_? It was like everything had stopped. Everything had stopped since he got hurt, and everything began to crumble.

Rounding corners at this speed, his pedes had to skid so that he could keep his balance. But he couldn't slow down, not with this energy, not with this _yearn _for knowledge...simple knowledge. Knowledge of what was going on. The only thing he knew, and the only thing that he could successfully run and repeat in his psyche was where he was going. If he didn't know his destination, why would he be running so fast?

There was a faint hope, a pulsing hope that somewhere he would find his friends, because they were all missing, and he was alone. So alone. He had never felt so alone. Never been so alone. He had never felt so _cold_. Was it because nobody understood? Then again, how could he expect them to understand? Even he didn't understand.

He had to get to the medbay. He could only conclude that his friends would be there, because that's where he was going. Had to get there fast. He passed other bots on the way, and could note that they were travelling in the same direction that he was. It seemed that many were already there. Try as he might, however, he couldn't slow down for the bots that he had passed, even despite his greatest desire to talk to somebody, anybody.

Those bots that he had passed in the hallways, they weren't really there. He knew they didn't see him as he charged by, faster than any bot had ever run on two pedes. He had turned if only for a second to scream something at one of them, Bluestreak if his memory served him correctly, but he didn't hear the scream. Even Bumblebee didn't hear his scream.

Maybe that's why it was so quiet. Everything's on mute somehow.

He couldn't remember the last time he had talked to somebody. Said something to anybody, about anything. A cheery greeting to one of his friends. A snarky remark aimed at some Decepticon. He knew he had said something earlier, not too long ago. But everything before now was just a blur. He had to talk to _somebody_. Somebody that would hear him, because he had to know what was going on. He had to comprehend the urgency of the thing...the person...he was running to.

He frantically skidded around the hundredth corner, slowing and stopping midway down the corridor, but only out of instinct, because beyond that mangled mess that was his psyche, he knew he had reached his destination. His spark had already been sending violently overactive electropulses through out his shell, all the way to his servos, though now the sensation was disturbingly renewed. His vision unfogged and he looked around at all the bots that lined the walls and were pacing this way and that among the avenue. Friends. Gathered before the entry way of the medbay. But something wasn't right.

Nothing was right.

He saw their faces and felt his own fall from the tense furrow that it had been a moment ago. He never liked to see his acquaintances entertaining a nature such as this, so somber, melancholy...utterly silent. It was all in perfect silence. He could barely even hear the footfalls from the few bots that were moving. The rest had their heads turned downward, some with their mouths moving. But their words were inaudible, and they hardly exchanged eye contact with the second party of the conversation.

Bumblebee felt his shoulders sink because there was pressure on them. It was the air, it was so _heavy_. He felt it progressively more on his chasis...stifling him.

Losing distance from his friends, he opened his mouth to say something. One simple question could easily clear everything, right? One question. All it would take. And yet, he opened his mouth, and nothing had come about his endeavor. He knew how to talk. But something told him not to say anything. Something told him it wasn't worth it. Something told him no one would listen.

He stopped dead in his tracks, because of Air Raid, whom was leaning on the wall perpendicular to Bumblebee. He looked up at the latter for a second. Bumblebee stared back, optics wide, anticipating. But in a moment of straggling, emotionless silence, he could only realize that Air Raid was staring at the wall. After a second, he looked back at the floor. His arms were crossed, his face unreadable.

Everybody seemed so blank. They didn't acknowledge Bumblebee, but he felt like they were asking him for something.

Still alone.

Going into the medbay, he had moved methodically; suddenly a lethargic, heaviness came over him. Physically, he felt deflated where is mind was already significantly deteriorated under the force of all the confusion. His arms swung loosely at his side, his legs felt like shaky traitors, and he could only think about willing himself to keep walking. Just a moment ago, he had been running like lightning. He had walked into the medbay at last, after what seemed like running for hics, and he gained nothing from reaching his destination. It only weakened him. What had happened only extinguished his breath and ran his energon thin. Weak. What he saw made him weak.

Ratchet was in there, but he had been expecting that. Optimus was in there too, not quite as expectant. Jazz, Ironhide, Sideswipe, Cliffjumper, Sunstreaker, they were there. Bumblebee wasn't surprised, only because he hadn't known what to expect until now. He hadn't put that much thought into it. He couldn't. Not with how psychologically incapable he was.

There was a bit of scampering, which made it harder to compose his thoughts and focus. But suddenly it was as if reality reignited. It started when he heard Ratchet's voice.

It would have been difficult to repeat exactly what the medic said; some form of terminology in the form of a barked command, his voice carrying a trembling semblance of _enraged_ concern. Bumblebee had jumped at it, not formerly recognizing a paranoia. He could only try to lay down a bit of analysis, stepping forward for further observation, though this uncanny lingering immobility made his gait slow and deliberate. He hadn't advanced more than merely a few steps, pausing rigidly.

"Ratchet, what was it?" Sideswipe had said, his voice booming over an earlier eerie silence in Bumblebee's atmosphere; as if his audio receptors had only just started working to their full ability. The red front liner's strides were long and quick in an effort to embrace a speed just short of jogging so that he could retrieve something for his elder. He walked right in Bumblebee's path.

His head was turned toward the direction of the medic, whom had repeated his demand for a tool. Sideswipe hadn't realized he was about to ram straight into the yellow scout, looking ahead only when he was inches away from him.

Bumblebee braced himself for the impact of a collision that never came.

His processor whirled for a moment, almost as fast as his body had when he turned at the speed of lightning to watch as his acquaintance continued his trek across the expanse...and for a few seconds, only for a few seconds, Sideswipe had turned to look behind him as he walked, his face pulled up into a curious look. A furrowed, questioning expression as if he had felt something strange a few steps ago and was wondering why.

Bumblebee's ventilation resumed its painful irregularity as panic overwhelmed the composure he had mustered. Sideswipe had walked straight through him. As easily as fog. He planted his hands on his head, a fruitless attempt to still the vibrating stimulation of dizzying shock, confusion.

_Where was he?_

He looked at the bot, lying utterly listless on the berth. The stillness, the limpness, the battle-damaged armor...was honestly scary, if Bumblebee would have chosen a word to describe it. He had briefly seen it when he first entered in the doorway, but had unwittingly focused more on all of the sensations that swept over him, that deterred his performance and concentration, that took away from the constant efforts in trying to retain every bit of the sanity he hoped he still had. But it was just now, just now as he looked through all of the pacing Autobots and barely getting a glimpse of the nearly-dead patient...as he slowly edged closer along in a room that he had to realize he wasn't in, did he realize why he was there.

A brief flash of memory crept up on him; his mind threw forth the image and for a moment, he was blinded by it. The bright light, the agonized scream, the sounds of clashing metal. None of it cohered.

An agonizingly suffocating knot came up in Bumblebee's throat. He would have shattered glass with his scream, if only he could fight the gag and the pain to achieve vocalization.

So still, he laid. Bumblebee had seen brutally beat and dead warriors on the battle field a thousand times over before. The extent of this mech's injuries, thereof, weren't the worst the scout had ever laid his optics on...however, no image ever made him feel so sick.

The plates were chipped and dented, some wounds deep enough to act as straits between the delicate lines of energon, the fluid darkened and encrusted on the metal like dry, thin paint. His shell was pale, one of his legs marred. The knee joint barely held on by a few wires, but that was a mere testament to the rest of the damage that confronted him. Dirtied, twisted, broken. The plates, wires, and ligaments in the mech's neck were tangled, protruding, leaking energon all about his shoulders and onto the berth, little by little. Ratchet was going crazy to patch it. Much of the energon leakage had dried and joined the rest of the crusted substance where ever it had settled.

Each deep crack in the armor was another chip away at Bumblebee's psyche, pushing him into madness.

The patient's face was so utterly blank with oncoming death. His mouth was open, ever so slightly open as if the prying claws of life used its weak mangled fingers to gently pry his lips apart and pull out the stale words that would indicate life.

Dizziness. Shouldn't feel this way. Never seen this bot before.

Not in person.

Bumblebee stood over the bot, looking down at him, with all of his awareness depleted. He heard nothing, saw nothing, but the mech on the berth. Lost in the perpetually dark realm of ill-tempered thought, he absent-mindedly reached for the mech's servo. He needed to feel life from him. He needed to know that this was real. His finger brushed the patient's hand.

The contact only reminded him of his intangibility. He watched with blank interest as the gentle stroke of his hand fell into the patient's own hand, sinking gently through like a light object over a puddle. But, the strange occurrence didn't scare Bumblebee...he was too lost to be scared. Too infatuated. He needed to know.

The exchange could only last for a few seconds. Watching as his hand fazed through and disappeared bit by bit, Bumblebee felt nothing of it. It felt as though he were touching air. He relaxed in the moment of painlessness, of oblivion, and relished as his mind succumbed to blankness. He only watched the hand of the patient as it seemed to absorb the hand of his own. So still, so dead. The fingers were loosely curled and completely unmoving, scratches and cracks exposing faintly glowing straits of energon. It seemed as though it were the first thing on the mech's body to completely lose hold of life, its grip weakened until not even the form of a fist could be achieved. Bumblebee watched, observed.

His entrancement shattered. He thrust his servo back, a shocking intake of air almost knocking him backwards, his optics wider than he thought they were capable of going. Taking a moment to regulate his off-put ventilation systems, he found a sense of composure and looked dumbly down at his hand. Doing what he done, touching the mech's servo, it hadn't felt like anything. Not at first.

Something had happened.

It was an indescribably, unprecedented sensation. Like a snap. He had felt the calmness of still waters in touching his hand, felt the cold freezer-like drop in atmospheric temperature, felt the blinding awareness slowly slip from his mind until nobody and nothing else was there with him but the nearly-dead mech. And then, after only a few seemingly perpetual seconds had passed undergoing the deceiving reverie inside his processor, something leaped inside his hand. He had _felt _something in the touch. A grab, a beckoning. Whatever it was, it had frightened him beyond what his usual rationality would have been able to handle. His spark's rate increased tenfold when he had felt it...whatever it was. Whatever it was in the touch that had germinated that feeling.

As soon as he felt it, he had seen the hand of the patient twitch. The fingers moved, ever so slightly. A small, insignificant jump that started at the wrist. It had something to do with the touch. Something Bumblebee had done. It felt like communication. Manifestation. Looking wistfully at his servo, Bumblebee's mind faltered and slipped again as it tried to register the happenings. There was a voice. A faint, echoing voice in the back of his helm.

Life?

So many voices in the room, so many noises, so much feeling. It all started to come back to Bumblebee. He could even recognize who he was hearing, he could even take a moment to contemplate the possibility of ration, could even look around and see what was happening. He could feel a sudden awareness. He never felt a greater presence since he had been running to this moment. He felt the air around him, and the temperature in the room. It was all asking something of him. Everything, everybody wanted something from him. But what? Why was everything suddenly so much louder?

Quieter. Louder. Quieter. Louder.

There was one voice that he didn't immediately recognize, but was eerily familiar. And it wasn't in the room. _"You know what just happened," _it said, raspy and rugged. Bumblebee thought he knew who it was. But he couldn't place the name. _"Look at him. Look at the mech on the berth."_

Bumblebee did.

_"You know what you need to do."_

It was almost comforting, how resolved and relaxed the scout had suddenly felt at that moment. Underneath this layer of noise.

The scout thought it was almost rash...he knew what that voice was insinuating, but what if it didn't work? Was it his only option? He looked at the mech on the berth as his contemplations expanded. It was only a matter of time before he his spark would offline and join all the other bots whom had died in the line of duty, under the murderous, crushing fists of war. He couldn't let it happen. But maybe he wasn't strong enough. Maybe it wouldn't work, and he would be eternally trapped. Too weak.

But he wasn't meant to be separated like this. Split in two. His mind told him who it was, for the first time. Only now did he recognize the mech on the berth.

He looked back at Optimus. Optimus never had trouble with decisions, it seemed. He wanted advice. He wanted his mentor's input. If only he could reach him, he was only twenty yards away.

Optimus's optics silently fell on Bumblebee's. The latter wanted to chuckle with madness at the exchange of contact; it couldn't be.

Bumblebee had never seen this look on Optimus's face before. His optics furrowed, standing rigidly still, his mouth parted just slightly as if he were prepared to make a remark. He remained silent, however, just looking on. He was thinking, trying to figure something out, doubting. Something about it made him look vulnerable, made Bumblebee's processor whir and his spark ache. He wanted to embrace his mentor and feel the comfort of answers, just ask what was going on and hopefully when he found out Optimus could tell him it would all be okay.

It could only go on for a few short moments longer. Bumblebee would never know if Optimus could see him. But if it was true, if it was happening, then both knew something, even if neither of them knew exactly what or how.

Bumblebee looked forward. One last look at the empty shell.

Stepping forward, he felt it again. That tug, that feeling of something calling to him. It knew his intentions. He hadn't need to force it.

He was sucked in to manifestation.

* * *

Voices, so many of them. Loud, blurry, fading in. He couldn't decipher them, it wouldn't come to him. All he could do was let his optics focus on the obscuring illumination of a hospital light, a silhouetted face, and the vague wondering of how he had gotten there.

* * *

**A/N: It's a little ridiculous, how I came up with this. I was reading another fan fiction on dA, and the first line was literally "Bumblebee ran." Then for some reason my psyche had a seizure and all this inspiration came to me.**

**This was way longer than it was supposed to be and not nearly as easy as I thought it would be, but I'm happy that it's done and I hope it was enjoyable despite having minimal dialogue. I've recently taken a liking to "broken, descent into darkness" fics involving varying versions of messed-up Bumblebees, so I tried to make it somewhat dark. The whole thing is open to free interpretation. It's only purpose was to explore Bee's psyche.**

**And I guess this is the Aligned Continuity. Or whatever butters your biscuit. I was trying to decide when this took place, but I never came up with anything, really. Most likely after Tyger Pax.**

**Please review and thanks for reading.**


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